The Dichotomy of Good and Evil
by MissVictoriaRose
Summary: Sirius Orion Black went through the Veil of Death, and did the unthinkable, he fell out the other side flat on carpeted floor. What's a disowned heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black to do when he finds himself in a world full of Gods and Monsters where the Wizarding World doesn't exist? "We can only do our best, and sometimes, our best is to start over," -Peggy Carter.


Demented laughter. A red light. Voices yelling. Screaming. Stone walls echoing. Stone floors unforgiving. Stone arches haunting. He was falling. The air stilled. His bones chilled. His muscles burned. He couldn't move. Seconds. Hours. Minutes. Time slipped away from him. Through his unmoving fingers. He could grab it. Couldn't count it. Time moved on.

It was the smell that hit him first, a stench of stale air and people odor. Next was the hearing. Motors, machines, and the ever constant hum of air conditioning. Then the feeling came back in his fingers and toes. It ran up his body, triggering minor spasms. Sight was the last to come to him. He opened his eyes a dark room. The sun had set and there were no lights. All he could see were ceiling tiles.

He didn't like ceiling tiles. Their certainly weren't any ceiling tiles in the stone layout of Department of Mysteries. Ceiling tiles were strictly a muggle thing. Which begged the question, of how Sirius Black came to be laying underneath white ceiling tiles as the effects of stunner charm wore off.

Sirius pulled himself into a sitting position, looking around among the lined desks and clinically white walls. He was laying in the hallway, which was a dumb place to be. He was in the middle of a battle. He remembered spells flying and fighting along side Calla, his goddaughter—Calla Lily Potter. But there wasn't a battle now. It was too quiet. There were no spells flying. He couldn't hear his cousin's crackling laughter.

There was just him, and this damned office building. So he got to his feet, staying low between the cubed desks, and tried to find a way out—a way back to Calla. He was a wreck. He didn't need to see himself in the floor-to-ceiling windowed cutter walls to know he looked like a wreck. He had one job, protect her, and he failed. And now he's stuck in the bloody building.

He reached the door, locked. Of course it was locked, because nothing, nothing, could possibly go his way. All he wanted was to save Calla. He was told not to go, but he couldn't stay home, locked up in that dreaded house while she was in danger. He left, to find her, to save her. Instead he was bested by his psychotic cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, and flew through the veil—

The Veil of Death. He fell through the veil of death. But he was fine. He fell though—He fell into and out of—the Veil.

He patted himself down, checking, reassuring, himself that he was in fact, fine. He was in the same outfit, not a stitch out of place. His scars and tattoos were all there. His hair held the same magnificent curl to it. There was no evidence, no proof, that he had, once again, done the impossible. He defied death. He was still alive.

Or the wizarding world was full of idiots that didn't know what the stupid stone archway did anyways. But that thought sounded a lot less cooler than defying death, so if anyone asked, he fell in to the Veil of Death and walked away.

Only he was currently locked inside an office building, and his wand hadn't turned up in his personal pat down. This only left him really one solution, to marauder his way out.

With that in mind, he applied a wandless-wordless Alohomora, unlocking the door easily. He made it through the door, not noticing the new red light blinking on the lock, into a new hallway. Which required another door to be unlocked. This lead to the floor's corridor that over looked Downing Street. Odd, Sirius noted, he seemed to be standing in the same location that the Ministry of Magic, just without the Ministry of Magic.

He hit the button for the elevator, and waited, staring out on to the street. He needed a plan. Plans were always James' responsibility. Sirius didn't plan. He didn't abide by plans any more than he abided by rules. They were limits, set actions, boring. He was Sirius Black—far as one could get from boring.

But now he needed a plan, because things were bad. Calla was in danger. He misplaced his wand. Voldemort was on the move, finally, and he, Sirius, was still a wanted man who had already escaped prison once. He doubted Fudge would let him have a chance to try a second time. On top of all, there was something that made his brain itch and the hair on the back of his neck rise. He wasn't a fool, despite what many thought of him. He had made O's on tests and homework he bothered to turn in. He was intelligent, and intelligent people noticed things that ought to be noticed. For example, things like how it didn't make any since that he woke up locked in an office building that is in the same location of the Ministry of Magic, yet didn't house the Ministry of Magic. Or the fact that his wandless-wordless magic felt different, but he couldn't put his finger on what exactly about it felt abnormal. Or how anyone, friend or foe, order member or government official, has yet to show up and scold him on his recklessness.

The elevator dinged. Sirius looked one last time out the window before stepping onto the elevator. He was on the seventh floor. Above grown, rather than below as he was before the veil. He hit the button for the ground floor, and watched passively as the doors closed and he started to descend.

The light for the seventh floor blinked on. He needed a plan. The Order of the Phoenix will reconvene at Grimmauld Place, so that should be where he is headed. The sixth floor light blinked on. Then, if Calla isn't there, he'll be able to pester someone in to letting him to see her. She'll be mad at him, because he risked himself. But he needed to see her. He just needed to see her, and make sure she's okay. The fifth floor light blinked on. Maybe if he saw her, saw that she was fine, he'd loose this heaviness in his gut and the coil in his muscles. It brought back nostalgia that he would rather left buried. It reminded him too much of his marauder days. The fourth floor light blinked on. It was the same feeling he got right before a plan would go south, right before a teacher would catch them, or something would go unfathomably wrong. The third floor light blinked on. It was a gut feeling that used to save him and his fellow marauders from being caught in the act. It protected him and his brother from their parents on multiple occasions. He relied on it for escaping Azkaban prison unseen and uncaught. The second floor light blinked on. So why was he feeling it now? Better question. Why was he ignoring it? He had to be smarter than this. He was smarter than this. He's Sirius Black, the heir of the House of Black, the only one to escape the mighty Azkaban Prison unaided, the eldest of the Marauders, the Grimm. The elevator swayed as it reached the ground floor. The light blinked on. The mechanical gears grind together as the doors opened to the lobby.

"Caece," Sirius whispered the disillusion charm as the doors opened to ten armed security guards.

"Where is he?" one guard asked.

"I don't know," another said. "The footage showed him getting on the elevator at the seventh floor."

"You four," the farthest guard yelled, "check the cameras. You, four, start on the seventh floor. The only exit of the building is behind, we know he didn't leave. Find him."

Sirius walked calmly, and quickly, off the elevator. He weaved through the moving security guards, pass their boss, and out the only door of the building on to the sidewalk of Downing Street.

Many things could be said about Sirius Black, subtlety is not one of them. Not sparing a thought to the loud noise it would cause, he disapparated right there on the sidewalk, amongst muggle pedestrian, to number twelve Grimmauld place.

Sirius apparated right outside the entrance gate, just outside the wards, of his childhood home. He stood there on the sidewalk wearing the dumbest expression that has ever graced his face, just staring up at what he the set of walls that housed his personal hell.

It didn't exist.

Well that wasn't true. Number twelve Grimmauld place existed. It sat between number eleven and thirteen Grimmauld place. But it was unremarkable, unmagical, ordinary. It was plain. It was muggle. It was almost funny. He was staring at his mother's worst nightmare. No wards, no secrecy, no blood century old safety measures. It was as if the Black family never lived there.

But that wasn't right. He lived here. He let the Order of the Phenix live here. The Weasley's, the Granger girl, and Calla, all lived here. He chuckled at the ridiculous of it all. The chuckle turned into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. How none of it made since unless he entertained the insane notion that wanted to bubble up in his mind.

He dropped his hands to his knees and sucked in a deep breath. He couldn't loose it. Not here, not like this. He tilted his head to the heavens, as he always did when he needed direction. He couldn't see any of the stars in the middle of London, but he had memorized the location of the stars long before Hogwarts thought to give him an Outstanding grade for it. He knew above him was the constellation of Orion and Canis Major. He could be sentimental and look towards the stars of Orion, who his father was named after, and ask for guidance. But he had never been a fan of his fathers, even when the man was alive. Also, Bellatrix was a star in the Orion constellation, and fuck that.

So Sirius turned his attention to Canis Major, and, more importantly, to the star he was named after.

"Bloody hell, if there was ever a moment for an epiphany, or a sign of divine proportion, on what to do, now would be the time," Sirius whispered to the sky. Nothing happened, not that he was honestly expecting anything to happen. But where is a guy to go when he is so used to hiding from everything.

With a heavy breath, Sirius did what he does best and picked the worst possible place to go. He disapparated, for the second time, towards Carnaby Street, where the Leaky Cauldron should be located.

He landed and almost fell flat on his face. Righting himself, he looks around. The street is almost vacant. A few people lingered at the end, all of them giving him a weird stare. He doesn't mind it, or them, because it exists. The Leaky Cauldron exists.

He rushed in, nearly knocking a woman over in his pursuit to the bar.

"Tom," Sirius huffed out, addressing the bartender who looked just like the bartender of the Leaky Cauldron should.

"Bill, actually," the bartender confirmed questioningly.

"Firewhiskey," Sirius demanded.

"Sorry, son. We don't sell that here. Actually, I've never heard of that," the bartender said. He poured Sirius a shot of regular whiskey, 'on the house,' because Sirius, 'looked like he needed it'.

Sirius downed the whole shot in one gulp, and slammed the glass on the counter.

The bartender moved to pour him another. Sirius took the moment to ask if the man had yesterday's newspaper. The bartender did. He pulled it out of the recycling by the back door and dropped it in front of Sirius, along with the second shot.

June 17th 2009, the date read.

"Bloody hell," Sirius mumbled to himself. "Thirteen years…"

* * *

3,666 miles away in a secret room inside a well hidden building within the heart Washington D.C.

"Sir, incoming from MI6," an agent announced.

"Put it up," Director Fury ordered.

The large screen at the front of the room flicked to life with a tape of an incident that had happened less than an hour ago.

The video showed of a man, for a lack of better word, popping in to existence in the middle of a hallway lined with office cubes. One second he wasn't there, the next he was. Every agent in the room watched with an avid stare as he the still man twitched to life. They watched as he looked around lost, as if he was in unfamiliar territory, and then attempt to open the looked door. They all watched quietly as the known to be locked door, unlocked without a key or any tampering from the unknown man. He made his way to the floor's lobby, and on to the elevator. The agents watched as the elevator reached the bottom floor, and the man disappeared.

Director Fury was the only one to make a sound, which sounded a lot like, "What the hell?"

* * *

A/N: If I'm being honest, I have no idea where this is leading. Sirius Black and Tony Stark bromance? Sirius ineffectively flirting with Natasha? Sirius verse Loki? I guess we'll both have to wait and see.  
What I do know, this will go through all the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and that Harry, boy who lived, is now Calla, girl who lived-who will be showing up eventually.

Let me know what you think.


End file.
